One Time, At Band Camp
by like a feather
Summary: A novel of marching band. What else can you say?
1. Prologue

The Poland Bulldog Marching Band was a beautiful thing. Out of a population of 800 students, 300 were in the band. Lined up, they stretched the entire length of the football field, shoulder to shoulder, and five people deep. And they were good, really good. They played complicated music that professional musicians in orchestras were paid to play. They marched intricate drills that many college bands could not pull off. People called them the best band around. No one ever made fun of kids in the band in Poland. In twenty-some years, the Gods of all marching band directors, Phil Giannini and Ron Stimple, had built an entire army of trumpets, saxophones, tubas, trombones, frumpets, baritones, drummers, clarinets, and flute players.  
  
Mr. Stimple retired in 2003.  
  
This is where our story begins. 


	2. Chapter One

I am not one for being nervous. I am never nervous. I am not capable of being nervous. That is what I had always thought, and it had always been true. But when the opening of "Where is My Mind?" came onto my stereo and woke me up at 6:45 am on August 4, 2003, I knew what nerves were.   
  
Every gulp of coffee and my heart beat got faster and harder. That's because coffee is bad for me and it was delivering an unhealthy dosage of caffeine into my system. I could feel every mouthful of Cocoa Puffs make the slow descent down my asophogus and then hit my stomach with a crash. I tried on every shirt in my closet, having a bit of difficulty because everything was old and nothing fit me. My legs bounced up and down on their own free will in the car on the way there.  
  
"Bonnie, are you sure you're not a little bit nervous?" my mom asked me, pulling up to the curb of the high school.  
  
"Me? Nervous? Nooo…."   
  
I really had no idea what to expect. I had no idea where to go. I just went where everyone seemed to be going: through the brown steel double doors. Inside was a large, crowded room with walls made of cinderblocks painted white. The white linoleum risers were covered with metal and wooden folding chairs, each with a name and number written on a piece of white paper taped to the back. Everything was white, white, white and the fluorescent lights beating down on all made it glow. I felt like I was at the annual KKK barbecue down the street. And as strange as its sounds, it kind of looked like heaven. Hundreds of angst-ridden teenagers dressed in their summer attire were standing around and talking, all tired. And of course, the freshman, just trying to be inconspicuous and not look as nervous as they were.  
  
I scanned the crowd for a familiar face. Just another freshman. This was hard because I am short. I had reached 5'1 ½" at the age of 10 and I never really grew again after that.   
  
"AY!" Bellowed Gabby Hornblower, my best friend, approaching me, with a posse of friends behind her.  
  
Now it was time for that awkward I-haven't-seen-you-all summer talk. In August. You know, "What did you do this summer?"  
  
"You're so tanned, you look like a Mexican or something!"  
  
"I love your hair…it's very…orange." This last one was about my freshly dyed orange hair. I had intended it to be red, but you know how those home hair dying things usually turned out. And that tan thing? Not about me. I am possibly THE whitest person who ever came into existence. I'm like Michael Jackson after a particularly long and tedious evening under his umbrella in his 3rd level basement.  
  
Gabby, an avid sleeper, looked kind of like she had been hit by a truck. "I'm really tired," she told me. "The ghost of Jim Morrison came over last night and he wanted to play Monopoly. And you know how long that game takes."  
  
"Yah, he called me last night like a 1 and said he wanted to come over and play Go Fish, but I told him I had to go to bed because I had BAND CAMP tomorrow."  
  
Perhaps I should tell you a bit about myself, specifically at this point in my life. There were many times in my existence when my parents should have had me mentally evaluated, but alas I was not. I just might very well be insane. There's no telling, though. As I have already mentioned, I was short, with curly orange hair, kind of chubby. Wearing blue jeans, a pink blouse, and flip flops. I suffer from a combination of Mick Jagger and Julia Roberts syndrome, resulting in rather largeness of the mouth and teeth. I also suffered from John Lennon syndrome, which gives you kind of Asian-ness of the eyes. For this reason (and others, including a bit of a lying spree in sixth grade) I was often called "Jap." Okay, I just realized that my description made me sound like a bit of a Eleanor Roosevelt, but I wasn't. I'm very cute, in an Irish sort of way, if I do say so myself. Anyhow…  
  
After that very peculiar conversation about the ghost of Jim Morrison, they told me that I had to go find my seat. You know, its often hard to tell where the saxophones are going to be in a concert band setting. Some directors put the on one side, some on the other, some in the middle. After much asking around I found that we were just in one big row behind the trumpets and in front of the trombones, right in the center. I started on the left side of this row and made my way all the way down, looking at every sign as I went. Finally, there it was. Bonnie Zimmerman. C6. On the left side was Kyle O'Range, on the right was Sandra Luenga. I tossed my saxophone on my seat with my folder of music and made my way back to the friends.   
  
We probably had stood around for half and hour before Mr. Lewinsky came out of the office and blew his whistle. This was obviously the signal to get in your seats, children.   
  
Mr. Lewinsky couldn't have been very old. He looked like he belonged in high school with us. They had first brought him in when I was in sixth grade at McKinley Elementary as a student teacher. The next year that band director retired, so Mr. Lewinsky took over there, and I went to the middle school. In this way I avoided really ever having him as a teacher until now. Nathan Lewinsky was like 24 or 25. He was dating a girl who had just graduated. He had obviously been a bit of a nerd back in his days at Poland Seminary High School, and his voice often cracked, especially when he was angry. He seemed like a bit of a fag, too. Oh, and let's not forget that his last name was Lewinsky. This prompted many jokes. Obviously.  
  
My squad was already seated by the time I got there. My first impression of Kyle was that he was male and he was bigger than me. I didn't really even look at him. I recognized Sandra from Middle School, so I knew she was a sophomore. The remaining member of my squad, who I didn't realize was in our squad until that afternoon, was a blonde flute player name Ashley Bates. She too was a sophomore.  
  
I looked around and was sad to find that there weren't really any freshman around me that I particularly liked, except for Scott Stuart, who was sitting directly in front of me. He was the boyfriend of one of my good friends, Daphne Necco. He was a funny guy, there were much worse freshman that I could've been seated behind.   
  
Mr. Lewinsky got onto the platform in the front of the room and everyone stopped talking. "Now I know you upperclassmen have heard this many times before, but we have to say it again for the freshman…"  
  
Kyle turned to me and whispered, "This is the fourth time I've heard this."  
  
I just smiled. I can be really shy around strangers.  
  
Kyle O'Range…Kyle O'Range…the name sounded so familiar. At least O'Range did. Wasn't there a Jared O'Range? From when I went to a Catholic school?  
  
Mr. Lewinsky went on to talk about the responsibilities of the upperclassmen, and blah blah blah. I really don't know what he said. I don't even know the main gist of it. But I'm certain he talked for a long time about transition, because that's what this year was all about: transition. He also introduced our newest band director, Mr. Zrubak (pronounced roo-bock), who had formerly taught at East Palestine and was a graduate of Poland Seminary High School. Then, after about twenty minutes, Mr. Lewinksy looked over at his leader, Mr. Giannini, and said, "Anything else?"  
  
Mr. Giannini took the podium. He was a little Italian man, in his fifties, his black hair only beginning to go gray. His eyebrows were thick and furrowed and his forehead creased with many years of frowning at band members. But most importantly, he had a mustache. All great dictators have mustaches. Stalin, Castro, Hussein, Hitler, all of them, they had mustaches. Now, Mr. Giannini knew how to lecture us. This man could go on for hours. He had done the sectionals for flutes and clarinets in middle school, and as I had been a clarinet player in seventh grade, I knew this was true.  
  
He talked for ages and ages. Mostly about transition. Mr. Stimple retiring was probably the roughest on him, because they had worked together for so many years, splitting the work in half. Now Mr. Giannini had to get used to taking over all the administrative duties. Poor guy. I wondered how long it would be before all his hair went gray and fell out, like Mr. Stimple's.   
  
Eventually, after what had seemed like enough time to tell us the history of man from the beginning until now with excruciating detail, he brought his little speech to a close. The low brass, frumpets, and saxophones were sent to the auditorium for sectionals. Bringing their stands, of course.   
  
I wasn't really sure whether to sit with my squad or not, but the three of us ended up sitting on the end anyhow. Everyone got situated, the saxophone players put their instruments together, and then everyone just talked. I didn't really have a lot to say, nor anyone to talk to, so I just sat there an listened. A very interesting conversation was coming from behind me.  
  
They were three very good looking trombone players. The one on the right had shaggy blonde hair and blue eyes, the one in the middle had really curly black hair and bright green eyes, and the one on the left had brown hair and gray eyes and kind of a whisker thing going on.  
  
"I hate this. I hate band. I'm going to kill myself," the one with the blonde hair said.  
  
"Yah. We should all kill ourselves," o' whiskery on said.  
  
"Jett," Curly said, addressing o' whiskery one, "You're not taken seriously enough to kill yourself. You'd be hanging from a ceiling fan and Mike here," he said, gesturing towards the blonde, "would come in and be like 'Hey Jett! What are doing, man? That's a great joke! Hahaha!'"  
  
"Fuck. You're right. Hey, look at Vonilla!"  
  
This would be a good time to mention a little bit about minorities at Poland Seminary High School. There are two Indian kids, three Puerto Rican kids, two Japanese kids, five black kids, and one kid who was black but also Puerto Rican. And proud of it. This was the infamous Benji Vonilla (he insisted in was pronounced Von-ee-yah, but people pronounced it vanilla to piss him off). He was a sophomore trombone player who apparently thought it would be a good idea to wear the Puerto Rican flag to the first day of band camp. Dumbass.  
  
"What the hell is he wearing?" Curly asked.  
  
"Fellows, I believe that is the Puerto Rican flag," Mike said.  
  
"HEY VANILLA! NICE FLAG!" Jett shouted.  
  
"YAH! PUERTO RICO SUCKS!" Curly shouted.  
  
Sandra had been sitting facing forward in her seat, listening to this conversation. She slowly turned around, and addressing Curly said, "Robbie, I'm Puerto Rican."  
  
This caught them all off guard, Sandra being hot and all. There were some grunts and some "Oh…"'s "Well…"'s and "You know…"'s before Robbie finally said, "Yah, but you don't advertise it on your shirt."  
  
Sandra smirked and pulled her shirt out so it was flat and they could see it clearly. There was a sunset with a palm tree, and there, at the bottom, it quite obviously said "Puerto Rico."  
  
At this time everyone noticed that Mr. Zrubak was sitting a stool on the edge of the stage, waiting for us to quiet down so we could begin.  
  
"You guys...you guys, quiet down," said Mr. Zrubak, trying to quiet down 100 anxious students. The talking began to simmer down, as many girls started to pull out coloring books and markers. "I know you guys are excited, so I'll just wait til you calm down…Okay, I'm Mr. Zrubak, but you guys can just call me Mr. Z-"  
  
"Z?" shouted one of those hairy tuba players in the back.  
  
Mr. Zrubak chuckled. "Yah, the Z is silent. Back when I was in the Poland, there were less members than in this section together. Blah blah blah…"  
  
My eyes started to glaze over as I slipped into a comatose state. I had learned to sleep with my eyes open in eighth grade reading class, because it was reading class in eighth grade. Just then, I felt a hand brush against my blue jeans and I snapped back to life. I looked over at Kyle, making very brief eye contact. Do you believe in love at first site?  
  
"Put your saxophone together," he whispered.  
  
Yah, me neither.  
  
Let me tell you how interesting the next two hours were. Not very. They were possibly the two longest hours of my life. All we did was play pre-game music, which I already knew from parades and pep ralleys from eighth grade. The pre-game is before a football game starts, for some reason the band must march across the field playing the fight song. Then they stand there, play the national anthem and the alma mater. After this they watch the visiting team run onto the field while their wimpy band plays in the stands. Then the 300 strong Poland band plays, drowning out the other band, as our football players run onto the field in a fit of homosexual glee. This phenomenon occurs only at home games, and that truly is a blessing. Before marching band, I didn't know a pre-game show existed because I never came that early.  
  
So here I was, two hours later. My ass was flattened from sitting in those uncomfortable seats too long, the inside of my bottom lip raw from playing so long. Mr. Lewinsky strode in as we were playing our own rendition of the fight song. It was quite clear that no one had been playing their instruments over the summer. Mr. Lewinsky stood behind Mr. Zrubak, folded his arms, and frowned, in a pose I was sure he had learned from the days when Mr. Gianinni was his teacher.   
  
When the song ended, Mr. Lewinsky tapped Mr. Zrubak on the shoulder and whispered something in his ear. This raised eyebrows amongst the members of the band, because we were always looking for some kind of proof that Mr. Lewinsky was indeed a homosexual.  
  
Mr. Lewinsky turned to us and addressed us. "Go back to the band room now."  
  
All the saxophone players started to put their instruments away, so I did the same. Over the course of marching band season, I discovered that if there was one reason I should've stayed with clarinet, it would've been that I was good at putting that thing together and taking it apart. 30 seconds, tops. I had been playing saxophone for approximately 9 months, and it still took me 10 minutes to assemble it and take it apart.  
  
I lumbered into the band room behind the tuba players, who had to haul those things around from room to room. I tried to make the high step up the risers with grace, afraid of ripping my pants and making an idiot of myself. I gingerly set my saxophone case down in front of my seat with my water bottle, sat down, and looked around. Ashley and Sandra were turned around talking to Andie Vesuvius and Ursula Akostolakis, respectively. Kyle was chatting it up with Justin Bassey. Scott was trying to convince Daphne to come sit by him. Gabby and Alexia Navajo, my other best friend, were too far away to carry on a conversation.  
  
And suddenly I felt very alone. 


	3. Chapter Two

A/n: Oh, it's back. I left out part of it as it involves all the techniques of marching band, and since I haven't marched at all other than a few parades for eight months, I thought I'd wait until real band camp starts up again to fill that in.  
  
I was alone like that first person who made it over the hump between monkeys and humans. This had to be dealt with. There was no way I was starting my high school career as one of those "quiet people." I'm loud and proud. I couldn't be pigeonholed as one of them. Then I'd actually have to associate with those people. How do they communicate? Sign language?  
  
I'd just like to take this moment to apologize to all those people out there who are "quiet."  
  
Silently, I watched Scott trying to get Daphne to sit on the floor by him. He beckoned her, she said, "No, Scott," like he was being immature, and started talking to her other frumpet buddies, Lil and Alice. Scott pouted his lips, folded his arms, and leaned back in his chair. I took this as my opportunity to use my vocal chords.  
  
"Scott." No answer. "Scott." Once again, no answer. "SCOTT!"  
  
He slowly turned around, now being grumpy because his girlfriend was neglecting him. "Yes?"  
  
"How were your sectionals?" I said cheerfully, trying to make polite conversation.  
  
"Hell."  
  
"Yah, mine too. Has Mr. Lewinsky put any moves on you yet?" This lightened him up a little bit.  
  
"No, man, he's got a boyfriend…"  
  
"Oh really? Who?"  
  
Scott pointed at a tall senior in the office. He had dark hair and was wearing a really tight pink shirt. He and Mr. Lewinsky were yakking it up with two other seniors, a girl with curly blonde hair and a twitchy guy with long, flowing blonde hair. They left the office and walked out to the front of the band room, the boyfriend stepping up onto the podium.  
  
"Hi, for those of you who don't know," he started out, then coughed disguising "freshman." "I'm Jared Ethel, the band president." Everyone rolled their eyes as he stood up there and smiled. "Now I know you guys get the same old speech every year, but keep in mind, it's new for the freshmen!"  
  
"Am I going to get this kind of abuse a lot?" I whispered to Kyle.  
  
"Not from every senior…"  
  
I wondered what he meant by that, but went back to listening to band president give his schpeel. "We certainly hope that all you upperclassmen do what you're supposed to as a squad leader and lead your squad. Try to be nice to the freshman, it's not their fault they don't know how to march!"  
  
Scott scratched his back with his middle finger. I stifled a laugh.  
  
"And freshman, listen to your squad leaders! Despite what you probably think, they know what they're doing!"  
  
Scott turned around with a look of total disgust on his face.  
  
Band president went on for a good half an hour. At one point, Kyle looked at his watch and said, "This joker is cutting into our break time."  
  
The curly blonde went up to him and poked him, trying to get him to wrap it up.  
  
"I know this morning has probably been really boring, but I guarantee it'll get better-"  
  
She punched him in the arm.  
  
He continued.  
  
Mr. Lewinsky cut in. "Okay, Jared, that's enough." The band president frowned and stepped off the podium and retreated back into the office. "Does anyone else have anything to say?"  
  
Gabby's apparent squad leader stood up and yelled "LOGAN!" Everyone laughed, and a few more people started chanting "Logan." The curly blonde blushed and got all shy, so I figured this must be Logan. Reluctantly, but obviously secretly pleased, she took the podium. "Hi, I'm Kim Logan. I'm the vice president. Ummmm…I really not good at these kind of things…So, yah, listen to your squad leaders...Um, respect upperclassmen…Um, that's about it! What about you Bill?" She got off the podium and the boy with the long flowing blonde hair got on.  
  
He kind of reminded me of Jack Sparrow from Pirates of the Caribbean, minus the pirate attitude and attire, which really just leaves you with the confusion and the twitchiness. He stood there for a moments, looking like he was preparing to say something really profound. And in the perfect Californian surfer voice he said, "The thing about music is…when you're playing it, it's like, fun to play, you know?"  
  
Everyone clapped, and Kyle proceeded to shout "GO BILL!"  
  
I whispered to Scott, "If that's Bill, then where is Ted?"  
  
"And how was their excellent adventure?" Scott added.  
  
Mr. Lewinsky got back on the podium. "Squad leaders, I need to see you to show you where you're standing. Everyone else, break time."  
  
The high school parking lot: it is perfectly engineered so that whenever the sun is shining, it is beating down directly onto the black top. In turn, the black top heats up, along with the high school on one side, and the stadium on the other, and becomes some kind of oven. This made it perfectly safe to cook a steak on the hood of your car.   
  
There was no refuge from the harsh sun, aside from hiding underneath the SUVs, and one little crab apple tree on a patch of grass that divided the parking lot from a fire lane next to the school. While many upperclassmen chilled out in the air-conditioned bliss of their cars, my friends and I sat under this tree. Passing the invisible joint.  
  
"I cannot fucking believe we're in high school," Gabby stated bluntly, after taking a drag on the joint and passing it along.  
  
"I can't believe we're in the marching band. We're like, a part," I said.   
  
We just looked at each other and laughed.  
  
Mr. Lewinsky burst out of the band doors with a ladder and a loudspeaker. He walked over to us so he was a little too close for comfort and blew his whistle. It was one of those things that was so loud and so shrill and you could hear things rattling around in your ears. Then he cupped his hands together and shouted, "NO INSTRUMENTS!"  
  
Gabby and I got up and lumbered off to go find our squad leaders. "That break was about useless," I remarked.  
  
"NO INSTRUMENTS!" Mr. Lewinsky shouted in the background.  
  
"Ah yes, five minutes, I feel quite rested."  
  
I looked down at my pinking arms. "Oh shit, I forgot to put on sunscreen."  
  
"NO INSTRUMENTS!"  
  
She just laughed at me.  
  
"NO INSTRUMENTS!!!" he cried.   
  
We looked back and observed this pathetic specimen. Wearing a ridiculous purple polo shirt, his hair spiked in the front, he looked like some senior the freshman would push around. But alas, he was twenty-five, and he was second in command, next to Mr. Gianinni. He just shouted, and shouted, and shouted…  
  
"I think I'm gonna die before this month is over," I said.   
  
I soon found Kyle and Gabby found the guy she referred to as "Bryan Squadleader." He looked like he'd been smoking some real happy leaf in the smokey van in the corner of the parking lot.   
  
Amazingly enough, Gabby and I were in the exact same spot, but two rows away. Still in yelling distance. Woot.  
  
"HEY SHITFACE!" she shouted.  
  
"Yah?"  
  
Then we laughed simply for the fact that she had shouted something vulgar and I had responded as if it were my own name. Meanwhile, Mr. Lewinsky struggled to open up his ladder, and Jared, Band President, went to go help him.  
  
A tap on my shoulder sent a cool sensation like frozen lemonade at baseball games down my spine. Do you believe in love at first touch? I turned around and-  
  
"Hey, do you know where I'm supposed to be?" Scott asked.  
  
I looked around and spotted his blonde frumpet-playing squadleader.  
  
"Right in front of me, Scott. You lucky bastard."  
  
He chuckled and took about two steps towards his spot, then turned back around. "Hey, look at the happy couple."  
  
Mr. Lewinsky and Jared, Band President, had the ladder up, but for some reason it wouldn't stay open. They stood underneath it, facing each other, with each pair of arms supporting the opposite side, so it looked like some kind of lustful embrace.   
  
"Hmm," I said, pondering.  
  
"Oh man, if William Wallace were here…"  
  
I was wondering who William Wallace was, when Mr. Lewinsky finally managed to struggle to the top of the ladder and blow his whistle. Everyone merged into their spots.  
  
INSERT MARCHING TECHNIQUES SCENE  
  
After Alexia's mom dropped me off, I trudged up the driveway with my saxophone, burnt, sweaty, hot, tired, hungry, and pissed off. I flopped onto the leather couch and turned on "The Young and the Restless," which I had never watched before, but now seemed like a good time to start.  
  
My mom asked me if I wanted anything to eat, I had her fix a French bread pizza. "So, how was it?"  
  
I sighed. "Um, it was kind of like Nazi Death Camp. But without the death. I can't believe I have to do this every day."  
  
The ex-queen of marching band laughed. "Oh, you'll grow to love it." 


End file.
